


Is it that you can't hear me clearly (I thought that I might matter dearly)

by RedWritingHood



Category: Batman (Comics), Batman - All Media Types, Under the Red Hood
Genre: Angst, Angst angst angst all the day long, Gen, Hurt No Comfort, both physical and emotional, no happiness here folks, warning for injury, warning for pain
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-09-04
Updated: 2018-09-04
Packaged: 2019-07-06 23:27:42
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 656
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15896313
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/RedWritingHood/pseuds/RedWritingHood
Summary: Jason was taken in by a dream of belonging, of a warm bed and daily meals and the magic of Robin and a familiar, familial presence, a family not by blood but by choice. He was made to feel like he was worth something.And then he dug out of his grave and crawled out of a Pit, coming alive to pain, confusion and madness and his own screaming.





	Is it that you can't hear me clearly (I thought that I might matter dearly)

Jason knows that he wouldn't be so angry if it didn't hurt so much. It's so damn ironic. Pathetic. He's a desperate, needy gutter rat, a child grasping for warmth, for someone to care.

He's a soldier, bloodied and broken, wild with yearning for the only stable home he's ever known.

He's a goddamn son, wanting his father, wanting his father to want him, too. He wants a family. He wants _his_ family.

But he's been replaced, and for killing him, the Joker was put back in Arkham, only to escape again, because he always does. But _Bruce_ doesn't do anything about that, oh no, he doesn't put the Joker out of commission for good, he doesn't _end_ the problem.

Jason was taken in by a dream of belonging, of a warm bed and daily meals and the magic of Robin and a familiar, familial presence, a family not by blood but by choice. He was made to feel like he was worth something.

And then he dug out of his grave and crawled out of a Pit, coming alive to pain, confusion and madness and his own screaming. He came back bent but unbroken. And all he could think of was Bruce and Alfred, and probably Dick would actually be happy to see him, and there wouldn't be a Joker to deal with anymore, because surely Bruce couldn't hold to his first rule after this? Surely after killing his son, Batman wouldn't let Joker walk off and hurt someone else. Surely Jason was worth it . . . right?

Wrong. His belief was shattered, his faith and his sanity and his _heart_ broken, when he found that, in truth . . . Jason didn't matter much after all.

One last-ditch effort to make Bruce realize he just has to kill this _one_ person, this _monster_ , to make him lose his cool, to make him show he cares after all, one last wild, insane, screaming plea--

And here he is, collapsed against an alley wall, one hand pressed against his bleeding neck where his father-figure slit his throat to save a monster. Because apparently the goddamn Joker matters more to Bruce than Jason does.

Jason presses harder against the wound. It hurts, but not more than the tight, anguished pain in his chest. His eyes sting. He tastes blood, and it doesn't help his throat, but he can't stop a sob from tearing out of him. And then it's impossible to keep from crying. He curls in on himself, deep, heaving sobs shaking his shoulders, hurting him even more. He's making sounds like an injured animal, and maybe that's what he is now.

A safehouse. He needs to get to a safehouse. He latches onto that one thought that drifts through his foggy, grief-stricken mind and manages to get himself to his feet again, staggering and stumbling his way to the nearest refuge.

He finds it. Inside, he stops and sways for a moment. The bleeding has slowed, but he still feels it sliding along his neck, down his collar. He finds that he doesn't really care.

He falls like the dead man he should be. At the last second, he catches himself on a nearby table. He's making a low noise in his throat. It becomes a wail. Then a _scream_.

Despair turns to rage. He overturns the table, but it's not enough. The entire room isn't enough to take all of his pain and madness, but it suffers the harsh, brutal brunt of it.

Slowly, his wrath simmers down, becomes manageable, until he's left panting in the midst of a damaged room. It's not gone, however. It stays, burning in his chest like an open, salty wound.

Bruce may have meant something to him, may have been a father to him once, but not now. Not anymore. Bruce isn't his dad, and Jason is no one's son. Bruce doesn't need him? _Fine_.

He sure as hell doesn't need Bruce, either.

**Author's Note:**

> Title from the song Say It by Echos.


End file.
